This is the place
Where one afternoon
I'll dance by the rosebushes
But be bleeding and bruised
Darling, my thoughts would break you
This heart is like a black hole
Pieces of you are everywhere
As the darkness unfolds
Here is a day you begged to never come
I'm melting then freezing
Melting then freezing
Its raw, its icy
But hot on your breath
This creation of god
Motions to the devil
So keep me where the light is
This storm that you call personality
Always changes
Calm to ill
My nerves are aching
Pulsating
Calm to ill
So promise me
If you decide to go before I wake
You'll leave the light on
If not at some point
I will succumb for my own sake
We can't downplay the dreary days
I've lost myself completely
But to keep going
I just need to remember my name
So could you whisper it sweetly?
As far as the unsaid goes
Were you scared
Or trying to spare me?
Be truthful now
I can't afford to sink into your gravity
This is a permanent winter
The entire home is asleep but me
They long ago committed
To the heaviness of rosy dreams
I fall victim to insomnia
As my pillow is untouched
They tell me I pose my ruins well
As the next morning
I still have a clutch
I'll never be a champion
So paint my hands gold
Like a weak little bird in a man's hands
I yearn to delicately unfold
I think that I'm finally catching my breath
But its not my air
Its yours
Tell me how to power through
Because my nails are deep in the flesh of desperation
And we mustn't forget
Its only skin
There's no leeway for hesitation.

Part I

Where flowers grow and sway
And where dew kisses their satin cheeks
Tall trees provide shade in the hot summertime
And breezes rustle the forest leaves.

Stars twinkle and wink at Night
Happily so merry and gay
And the Moon watches happily o'er
This beautiful enchanted place.

Coblestones provide such a lovely walkway
Leading to the pretty cottage
Where tall rosebushes climb
The trellis where at Night their buds unfurl.

Such beauty that *ONLY Jesus can create
And as I stand here gazing at the beauty of Nature
I think of the Holy Creator Who made this whole world
And I think of how Jesus smiles while looking at His creation.

**~Marian~

So let's talk about nice guys

The "Kindness paves the path to your *******" Nice guy
The "Holds you tight to touch your ****" Nice guy
The "Can't wait to shed that friendship under the sheets" Nice Guy

And of course

The "Asks you how your day is" Nice guy
The "Walks you to your car just to say goodnight" Nice guy
The "Active listener, no ******* advice giver, forgoes eating dinner because you needed someone to just talk to" Nice guy

Please tell me you can tell the difference
I hate being mistaken for the twin I never asked for
He breaks your Windows and blames it on my good intentions
Somewhere along the line
He triple knotted my kindness to my *****
without my permission 
And now every kind word 
Is heard like a red flag
and thus making friends 
makes wary eyes
My kindness misread
Misheard and mistaken
I've learned Some sounds are better left twirling off of shot glasses than ear drums

Here we are
Guys with hearts of gold,
Sought after like they were made of diamonds
used like iron to build bridges out of our patience,
left to rust once bridges have been crossed,
How quickly brilliance is forgotten
Well trodden is the kindness we so wish we could bury so you might finally appreciate when our beauty sprouts from hardened earth instead of just being there.

You know what we wish was just there?
A Well trodden, hardened body, with biceps as unrealistic as the girls you see on TV
Drastic as the plastic surgeries
Murdering our metabolism
For our own eyes as much as yours
We so wish we weren't the last to get their first chest hairs
Maybe then parties wouldn't mean having to talk to the" are you gay?"s
Who remind us that at least we've come a long way from highschool
Where people used to just assume
With words like fists
That left bruises all the same
And yet I can't tell what is worse
These fists or being set up on dates
That I never wanted
And never asked for

11 days into my first year of college
3 in the morning over spirits and stories I was asked
"So are you gonna ask that guy out?"
my car out of gas from adventures with friends
I was supposed to sleep on her floor
And so i slept on the floor
of the halls common room
I was kicked out at 3:45 and it was raining
I didn't realize there was a wrong answer to that question
The next morning I Texted her and asked if she spelt friendship different than I did

But guys can deal with their own **** right?
And being nice is its own reward right?
I've learned to be grateful for being needed, havent i?

This is the world where I will never not be the nice guy you have been warned about,
You've been warned about every side, angle, shape and size of me
Before I've even opened my mouth
Warned that if you jump the fire pit you'll be burned
Warned not to jump the rose Bush in the garden
But everyone seems to remember trying to jump the fire pit
No one remembers jumping the rosebushes, because no one jumped the rosebushes
And we are patiently waiting, budding while we watch the fires
Be watered

But on the hundredth time one is told to wait for the silver lining rainfall, to wait our turn, soft hearts hardly remain soft but instead harden into a pulsating mesh of muscles tired of beating for other hearts who feed off our blood and give none back
We do it so we know the blood is going somewhere worthwhile, besides our extremities
Just so these two feet might walk a one way street that is so ******* lonely

Stepping through a green-lit desert,
A flowery meadow, that stretches beyond
My sight. I can no longer view the oasis
Behind me, which harbored clear water
And treats for life. The gleaming sunshine
Of this endless day is only lost by the green stalks
And vines that carry on, that fall slowly into the night
Beyond which there is something I know not of.

This meadow holds crimson rosebushes with prickly thorns
Whose roots creep along the soil like nascent trees
In bloom. The washed peonies sway like figures
Entranced by the sweet harmonies of distant sirens.
These songs lie beyond the horizon,  
Over the moon and stars where this meadow
Curls into darkness.

I’ve spent years wandering this moving wasteland,
Using the sparse rains as drink and plants as food.
I sometimes sat to smell the scent of the flowers
And grass, but the meadow’s call always beckoned me forth,
And I always had to listen, for I have known of little else
Than to walk.

I have sometimes cried, wondering why the meadow
Is so cruel, asking why it hasn’t revealed to me
Why I must traverse its soil to a dusk so far ahead.
I have often shouted, screamed when it remained silent
As I begged for an answer or sign which I hoped
Lay in the way the sun rose into the air
And cast its red glow upon the world, or in the way
The stars came out and twirled when the days burned
Out like matches. But the meadow has always
Been this way.

I’ve stepped through my thoughts for longer than memory
Can reel, before the meadow taught me how to crawl.
But sometimes the meadow has let me live in picturesque moments,
In ephemeral timeslots that can only be seen in dreams;
The sun and moon and stars fly high at once and shine
With an iridescent glow that draws out music from
The swaying roses. It’s in these moments that the journey
Has been lost to evanescence and has become married to hope,
To a love of visceral offerings that the meadow has afforded me.

The meadow has showed me in dreams where this journey ends,
Where the flowers and soil fall off and leave behind
Only their transient scents and silky touches, where everything
Becomes impossible to see. The meadow
Has not yet told me what lies beyond that point,
But it has promised me that nobody can know,
Because the dusk, the quiet that lies in front of it
Cannot be heard, and never will.

I’m somewhere stuck in a memory not yet made,
Tumbling along in old age. My skin has started to sag,
My hair has taken on a platinum hue, And my back
Hunches over in an arc, curved and bent like a flimsy twig.
The meadow has tried to comfort me by sprouting
Thicker grasses upon which I can close my eyes
And drift away, but sleep has become only a short respite
From a long life of trudging toward this promised finish.
I know not how many more steps I will take before
I arrive, but in the meantime, the flowers
Will keep me company while the march toward
The night that lies ahead continues on.

Someone once told me that I was "for keeps". I've never been a fan of any type of label, but I've wondered how he had shelved me in two words.

I've sought out its meaning. Maybe it was the same as how he was always proud of his vintage toy collection. I was there for his quartlery dose of nostalgia. The novelty of us was something that made him grin.

It could be how another liked to treasure letters from lovers past. Only to flood himself in regret. The names and faces garbled in the salt water.

I learned it was not the same as how my neighbour cut the thorns of the rosebushes, and left the buds for him to adore. He always kept the scissors by his bedside.

The only things I have managed to keep are my pinky promises, my drafts from two years ago, and my used bandaids. It's embarassing to recount how unmade, unfinished, and uncertain I've been.

But if I were to love you, I will not tell you you are worth keeping. Holding you would be selfish to the universe. I cannot possess your thoughts and your soul, your charm will pour itself from my grandmother's china. Pictures will not be taken. Maybe just one, to show my friends the uncanny resemblance you share with my favorite poet. I will unknowingly breathe you in, only to heave heavy sighs into your mouth.

We will thrive among white lies and speak about tomorrows with fistfuls of hourglass sand in our pockets. We will borrow light and pay in forms of miles we need to walk.

I have never wanted to be called a keeper, nor have I ever wanted to keep. The world can only afford to lend beautiful pieces of itself.

in your backyard, a summer evening, daylight dropping low behind clouds and trees on the horizon, and light from the kitchen window illuminating a slanted square of freshly cut lawn. you and i, we drew as far back from your house with your parents and the rest of the world as we could, hidden in the far corners where we couldn’t be seen, leaning against the fence and smoking cigarettes amongst your mum’s rosebushes. this is where we liked it. this is where we filled fancy glasses and sipped stolen champagne - or you sipped and i quietly poured most of it into the garden, wondering how much wine it would take before it started killing the plants - and contemplated what we’d do with the rest of our days.
i had some ideas, and they all included you.

i am from a pile of gluten-free pancake mix in the pantry
from a bowl of bananas that are always rotten and a drawer of pens that is never opened.
i am from the patchwork house in the middle of the street that never feels empty of anything.
i am from the rosebushes
the tree at the end of the street whose long gone limbs i remember as if they were my own.

i’m from blonde hair and adopted siblings.
i’m from introverts and lovers of books
and from driving around the country every summer because plane tickets are too expensive.

i’m from the Easter bunny and Santa Claus
and “say sorry to your brother.”
i’m from stir fry on Sundays.
i’m from Omaha and all over Europe
and potato soup and homemade bread.
from the time my brother fell down the stairs and hit his head on the wall.
from the quilt my grandmother began that now lies incomplete in a trunk in the back of the attic.

this is worse than i thought it would be.this is harder than i thought.
i ******* know i should accept myself but its hard not to believe im broken
when the only model for happiness includes no room for me,
i don't want to be selfish.
sorry for forcing myself into a life never made for me.
i understand you don't care when i find it hard to breathe.
im choking to death and you just want me to hold your hand
while you breathe into a paper bag.
i'm not your friend, im your comfort object.
i want you to care that im in pain.you told me you love me.
you told me im too good to be true.
you like me the same way you like your coffee: sugared;
drowned in milk so you dont taste the bitter.
:it all feels so one-sided: you said,
:i tell you everything.why dont you ever tell me anything:
:i want to help you:
:like you help me, i feel so useless:
i cried and you pretended you didnt see.
you are a sorry excuse for a friend.you are selfish.if i told you i feel like im dissolving
youd ask if this means i love you.
youre corrosive.youre sulfuric acid and i never should have let you inside of me.
god ******* ******.im tired of writing about you.you make me feel unlovable and broken.
there are bones in the backyard of my childhood home.
there are eight rosebushes to choose from and i grew up
scratching myself ****** on the branches.
you like to disembowel anyone who makes me feel loved and when i try to fix myself you ask
why im abandoning you.
its always the same ******* thing.
its always the same thing.you're always crying and im always biting my cheek.
im always lonely and youre always kissing my neck.
its always the same.

Lilies mean I dare you to love me.

When you slipped out of your white dress, I saw a pool of petals around your ankles. You kicked them with a smile. It must have been cold, because you walked into my arms and whispered “Color me”.

And I did. With kisses that came and went, a flash-flood of hands over your skin. With the scent of wild summer nights that we spent chasing our paper boats along the stream.

We tripped over fallen logs who must have been lovers who had forgotten to breathe, because beauty is a drug and love is just as poisonous as ozone. I wound my toes around yours, and we lay on rosebushes. I watched you stitch your fingers into mine, and to color the thread of thorns, I chewed the inside of my cheek.

By the end of summer, you were turning purple and I had already gone gray.
Lilies mean I dare you to love me. Which flowers will dare you to stay?

she
swallowed all
the lilies in my
garden. then
descended
upon my
rosebushes
and delighted
in the fact
that they
resembled
her.

in your backyard, a summer evening, daylight dropping low behind clouds and trees on the horizon, and light from the kitchen window illuminating a slanted square of freshly cut lawn. you and i, we drew as far back from your house with your parents and the rest of the world as we could, hidden in the far corners where we couldn’t be seen, leaning against the fence and smoking cigarettes amongst your mum’s rosebushes. this is where we liked it. this is where we filled fancy glasses and sipped stolen champagne - or you sipped and i quietly poured most of it into the garden, wondering how much wine it would take before it started killing the plants - and contemplated what we’d do with the rest of our days.
i had some ideas, and they all included you.

****, they may as well have started holding hands
And making paper dolls together,
The way they carried on
Back in the neighborhood after push came to shove,
Like none of it ever happened:
All the times they spit on us,
The constant **** and ******* and goya,
The ***-kickings if we went one alley too far.
Peace didn’t last; hell, it couldn’t
It’s just the way things have to be, man.
If I ever got in front of some parole board
(Not that I’ll ever have that chance,
As I ain’t goin’ anywhere unless they send me
To Auburn or Attica for some change of pace)
This is what I’d tell ‘em:
You come home to your nice house
In your tidy little sub-development
After a day at Corning or IBM,
And you find out that some punk
Has ******* one of your daughters
And stuck a shiv into her quarterback boyfriend,
What are you gonna do if you find him
Hiding in one of your neighbor’s rosebushes?
Exactly. Save the taxpayers the expense of a trial.

Musta been a year, maybe eighteen months ago,
This bunch of goody-goody types,
All social workers and sweet boys,
Show up here to put on some **** play
Where this guy’s uncle kills his dad
And starts puttin’ the blocks to his mom,
And for hours it’s nothing but yak, yak, yak.
And I’m thinking Man, could you just ice the guy, already.
Let me tell you, I’ve never seen ‘Nardo’s ghost
(Let alone that ******’ ******’s one)
But if he ever shows,
It ain’t gonna be to accuse me of nothin’;
No, he’d smile and shake my hand,
Because I did what the code said you gotta do.  
Just what the code said.

People and horses

The Newmarket was the oldest market in town
farmers came here selling potatoes and other greenery
Their women-folk sold thick, long underwear
winter can be cold when the North-west blows.
Horse manure was quickly scooped up the town’s housewives
good for the rosebushes.
Horse **** gave off a fragrance of time gone by.
Time changed, first slowly farmers had trucks
sold orange, tomatoes and exotic fruits never heard of before
and one day the horses to had gone.
Everybody was busy not time for a wee dram and a chat.
It was the horses that made the market pretty
oddly enough the iron ring on the railing is still here
Waiting for the warm breath of the workhorses.

Flee.

Jagged cliffs angling towards the sky in your touch down,
The whales mingle with the stars in the deep sea,
But all you can do is
Rosebushes on balloon held cotton candy
Warehouse.

It’s Canada all over again.
The ski lodge with its electric fireplace,
Glass made to look as if
Its warmth wasn’t from beauty
Deception.

The wolves are all around you,
You’re lost amongst the sea of
Shadows
The moonlight cuts through the
Thick canopy of patience.

Unwonted patience.

Regality is dignified,
Is mighty,
Is meant to be honored.
You let it be pounded.

You let them twist and crush
Into sparkling powder that has you mesmerized.

Years down the road
Reality will dawn.

The new day,
Heavy.

04.07.2021

These are my English translations of French poems by Arthur Rimbaud...

Ophélie (“Ophelia”), an Excerpt
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

On pitiless black waves unsinking stars abide
... while pale Ophelia, a lethargic lily, drifts by ...
Here, tangled in her veils, she floats on the tide ...
Far-off, in the woods, we hear the strident bugle’s cry.

For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia,
This albescent phantom, has rocked here, to and fro.
For a thousand years, or more, in her gentle folly,
Ophelia has rocked here when the night breezes blow.

For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia,
Has passed, an albescent phantom, down this long black river.
For a thousand years, or more, in her sweet madness
Ophelia has made this river shiver.



Le Bateau ivre (“The Drunken Boat”), an Excerpt
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The impassive river carried me downstream
as howling warriors slashed the bargemen's throats,
then nailed them, naked, to their former posts,
while I observed all idly, in a dream.

What did I care about the slaughtered crew,
the Flemish barley or the English freight?
The river had taught me how to navigate,
but otherwise? It seemed so much “ado.”



Drunken Morning, or, Morning of Drunkenness
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, my Beautiful! Oh, my Good!
Hideous fanfare wherein I won’t stumble!
Oh, rack of splendid enchantments!

Huzzah for the virginal!
Huzzah for the immaculate work!
For the marvelous body!

It began amid children’s mirth; where too it must end.
This poison? ’Twill remain in our veins till the fanfare subsides,
when we return to our former discord.

May we, so deserving of these agonies,
may we now recreate ourselves
after our body’s and soul’s superhuman promise—
that promise, that madness!
Elegance, senescence, violence!

They promised to bury knowledge in the shadows—the tree of good and evil—
to deport despotic respectability
so that we might effloresce pure-petaled love.
It began with hellish disgust but ended
—because we weren’t able to grasp eternity immediately—
in a panicked riot of perfumes.

Children’s laughter, slaves’ discretion, the austerity of virgins,
loathsome temporal faces and objects—
all hallowed by the sacredness of this vigil!

Although it began with loutish boorishness,
behold! it ends among angels of ice and flame.
My little drunken vigil, so holy, so blessed!
My little lost eve of drunkenness!
Praise for the mask you provided us!
Method, we affirm you!

Let us never forget that yesterday
you glorified our emergence, then each of our subsequent ages.
We have faith in your poison.
We give you our lives completely, every day.
Behold, the assassin's hour!



L'Eternité (“ Eternity”)
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Where does Eternity dwell?
In the sea,
run beyond the setting sun.

Implacable Sentinel,
murmuring the soul’s confessions
of night’s barrenness
and days ablaze.

Inhuman votary!
Free of human impulses
and penitence,
you flee accordingly.

Since the beginning of time
you have stood alone,
amid shimmering embers,
exuding voicelessly:

“There is no hope,
no logical orientation,
no future revelation of patient science,
only the inhuman torture.”

Where does Eternity dwell?
In the sea,
run beyond the setting sun.



Les Illuminations II: Enfance (“Childhood”)
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

II.

The little girl lies dead, behind the rosebushes. – The young mother, deceased, descends the steps. – The cousin’s carriage squeaks through sand. – The little brother (he’s in India!) lies facing the sunset in a meadow of carnations. – The old ones are buried upright in ramparts overgrown with wallflowers.

Swarms of golden leaves surround the General’s house. They’re in the south. – Follow the red road to arrive at the empty inn. The chateau’s for sale; its shutters flap. – The priest’s taken the key to the church. – The keepers’ cottages are tenantless, the fences so high only rustling treetops are visible. Oh well, there’s nothing much to be seen, besides.

The meadows rise to hamlets without roosters, without anvils. The sluice gate is raised, the waters rise. O the wilderness’s crosses and windmills, its islands and millstones!

Magic flowers buzzed. Embankments cradled him. Creatures of fabulous elegance encircled him. Clouds accumulating over open seas unleashed an eternity of warm tears.

IV.

I am the saint praying on the portico, watching docile beasts graze down to Palestine’s sea.

I am the scholar in the dark armchair as whipping branches and rain hurl themselves at the library’s shutters.

I am the pedestrian on the path through stunted woods; the ****** of clicking locks anticipates my steps. For a long time I pause to ponder the sunset’s melancholy golden demise.

I am the child abandoned on the jetty jutting out toward the high seas, the small valet whose forehead brushes the sky as he navigates an alley.

The trails are rough, their mounds haired with broom. The air is so still, so silent! How distant, the birds and the rills! The end of the world must lie ahead.



Illuminations VIII: Départ (“Departure”)
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I’ve seen enough: the same vision encountered under all skies.

I’ve had enough: the rumors of cities, by night and by day, the same light, always.

I’ve known enough: life’s tedious decrees, its rumors and visions!

It’s time for departure into new affections, new noises!



Sensation
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

On blue summer evenings, I’ll stroll the paths,
Pricked by the wheat, tickled by the grass;
Dreamily, I’ll feel the freshness at my feet,
Breathe the wind, then sigh, complete.

I will not speak, nor think, nor muse at all,
Yet boundless love will surge within my soul.
And I will wander far away, like a gypsy,
As happy with Nature as any woman’s company.



Antico (“Ancient” or “Antique”)
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Graceful son of Pan! Around your brow, crowned with flowers and berries, your eyes, lustrous spheres, revolve. Your cheeks, stained with wine sediments, seem hollow. Your white fangs gleam. Your lyre-like chest! Chords pour from your blonde arms! Strong heartbeats resound in the abdomen where the double *** sleeps! You stalk the night, gently moving first this thigh, then the other, then the left leg.



Song of the Highest Tower
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let it come, let it come,
The day when all hearts love as one.

I’ve endured so long
That I’d even forgotten
The pain and the terror.
I’ve visited heaven,
And yet a morbid thirst
Still darkens my veins.

Let it come, let it come,
The day when all hearts love as one.

Thus the neglected meadow
Given over to oblivion
Flowered, overgrown
With weeds and incense
As hordes of filthy flies
Buzzed nearby.

Let it come, let it come,
The day when all hearts love as one.



Rêvé Pour l'hiver (“Winter Dream”)
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come winter, we’ll leave in a little pink carriage
With blue cushions. We’ll be comfortable,
snuggled in our nest of crazy kisses.
You’ll close your eyes, preferring not to see, through the darkening glass,
The evening’s shadows leering.
Those snarling monstrosities, that pandemonium
of black demons and black wolves.
Then you’ll feel your cheek scratched...
A little kiss, like a crazed spider, will tickle your neck...
And you’ll say to me: "Get it!" as you tilt your head back,
and we’ll take a long time to find the crafty creature,
the way it gets around...



Dawn
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I embraced the august dawn.

Nothing stirred the palaces. The water lay dead still. Battalions of shadows still shrouded the forest paths.

I walked briskly, dreaming the gemlike stones watched as wings soared soundlessly.

My first adventure, on a path now faintly aglow with glitterings, was a flower who whispered her name.

I laughed at the silver waterfall teasing me nakedly through pines; then on her summit, I recognized the goddess.

One by one, I lifted her veils, in that tree-lined lane, waving my arms across the plain, as I notified the ****.

Back to the city, she fled among the roofs and the steeples; scrambling like a beggar down the marble quays, I chased her.

Above the road near a laurel thicket, I caught her in gathered veils and felt her immense body. Dawn and the child collapsed together at the edge of the wood.

When I awoke, it was noon.